


Counts of Three

by candiedsocks



Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, mentions of cannibalism, the ladder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedsocks/pseuds/candiedsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Lecter suggests an alternative therapy because Will keeps shooting down his other ideas. When Will accepts the new offer, Dr. Lecter takes advantage and they both make some discoveries about themselves. Dr. Lecter can't keep track of his toys and Will faps lonely in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counts of Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



They sat knee to knee in the space that Will had begun to associate with conversations more than therapy. Hannibal had a thoughtful look to him, distant as he was no doubt recalling something between his training and experience. Will had long ago settled his gaze, watching the flicker of recollection as Hannibal turned to face him.

“Have you considered Cognitive Behavioral Therapy? I have not often ventured into the realm of CBT, but perhaps we could find this mutually beneficial.”

Will considered the words carefully, but spoke quickly. “Am I your guinea pig, Dr. Lecter? Trying conventional therapy methods finally?”

Hannibal smiled, the edge of his teeth showing in what might have been a sneer if he let it go any further. “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is useful for patients who experience marked anxiety and practice maladaptive behaviors. Your tendency toward self-abuse would qualify as maladaptive.”

“I took Psych, Doctor.” Will stretched out, taking up more space as the defensiveness rose. It was less the passing accusation of his lack of insight into behavioral studies and more the repeated accusation of his abusive nature. Will was feeling testy when he looked off, sighing out the breath he was holding in. “I don't like anything that ends with therapy, be it group based or alternative. My--” Another breath before he focused on the man in front of him, who managed to look condescending and non-assuming at the same time. “Tendencies are overly exaggerated. I'm not abused. I'm enervated. I am the worn flint that offers inconsistency.”

“You are speaking to of the increasing difficulty of your ability of expression, of comprehension. Yet a flint is only as valuable as it is functional. Do you fear you will be cast away?” Hannibal turned his head just so. The expression that won his face now was one of contemplation. As if the discoveries made of Will were for the both of them.

Will licked his teeth, uncomfortable with the thought. “I do not fear that I will be cast away. Not in that sense. It was a shit analogy.”

“They often are. Too far reaching into your mental capacities to often be truly impactful to those around you. Above those who would benefit from the knowledge and untouchable to those who would seek meaning from them.” He was, of course, speaking of the forms of flies. Will's poetic tongue was lost on the lessers. Still though, the light teasing was accompanied with a smile to soften the jab, and Will took the criticism in stride, laughing. 

“It would help if I slept. I might make more sense if I could manage a few hours. The jaunts down the highway probably aren't helping either.” Sleep walking should not be spoken of lightly, but both men shared a small chuckle at Will's tendency toward night walks, landing him in the back of Sheriff cars at night and Hannibal's kitchen in the morning.

They sat in comfortable silence until Will was leaning forward, rubbing vigorously at his face. “It's late doctor.”

Hannibal made a soft noise as Will began to bid farewell and rose. “One last thing, dear Will. A proposition. Since you have such aversion to conventional therapy, we may consider an alternative...”

Will's phone cut him off with the warning shrill of impending trauma, Crawford's name splashed across the screen. Will glanced up, brief nervousness at the interruption before he put a hand out, a silent apology. He answered, turning away hushed as he spoke of the current case. Bound woman, slit neck, sexual abuse. 

The inhale from Hannibal was slow, tolerating the rude behavior that would have others on his dinner table. When Will hung up, he looked weary. “I have to go.”

The next time they met, Thursday evening at seven to accommodate the coming weekend for Will, Hannibal had prepared a little something special. They both sat, Will gazing at a red book on the shelf just visible on the ledge above; the red stood out from the rest of the visible spines. His eyes were unable to catch the words this far away and it provided enough distract that he could speak freely of the case. Three bodies now, with a potential fourth, and only the mutilations and faint trace of something in their systems. The murderer had an obvious location for the kills, but lacked a clear motive. All of the victims had been somehow related to the Zoo, where the first body was found in a dumpster on the premises.

He lost what Hannibal asked him; he had to reorient, breathing in and squinting at the man across. “What?”

Hannibal smiled, like he was enduring some small child. “I asked if there had been traces of Ketamine. Mutilations occurred postmortem. A Ketamine dose would be determined by weight. Easy to administer too much.” His fingers were a steeple nearly touching his chin as he looked off. Will got the sense that there was something else coming, but he took the bait of consultation.

“Two of them, yes. The third was something else. She suffered a slash pattern to her arms and legs while she was alive. Serrated blade. It was the removal of her hands and lips that occurred after. The only reason we connected her was the partial print we lifted from the first victim's shoe.”

“Repayment for a transgression? Her hands and lips were of focus. You should look to student veterinarians.” 

Will's eyebrows peaked, and he started a slow nod. Hannibal's directions were rarely misleading. They typically resulted in valuable finds. “I will do that.” His gaze now dropped, his eyes settled where they had been avoiding. Hannibal had changed the placement of a few choice items in the room, but largely kept the setting for the sanity of his occupants. Shifts in the environment were handled only as well as the patient could cope. The change was subtle in the room, but like a loose thread in a knit or a misplaced tile, once he saw the newly added chest against the wall, his attention stuck. Will's lingering gaze on the box was as much a silent prompt as Hannibal needed.

“A continuation of our conversation last session.” Hannibal too, looked to the chest. It looked like it belonged in the room, sleek with a low gloss varnish over dark stained wood. But it's presence announced itself, and Will finally looked up, breathing out with a vocalized prompt. “An alternative to conventional.”

The invitation to investigate was communicated with a gesture of Hannibal's hand. Will's mouth turned down in a frown before he was out of the chair, crossing the room with tentative steps. He knelt, hands brushing the smooth surface before he dropped the oil-brushed metal latch. Inside was something he would think to find at a crime scene house. The chest even looked to be designed for it, with built-in compartments holding a variety of dressage whips, ticklers, a mask, rope—there was a shiny rubber ball with a hole through it that Will would question before it's intended use struck him. He floundered, standing up and inhaling. “Is there a pig mask in here too? I don't think humiliation and a stiff dick is going to help me.” Shame on you, Dr. Lecter. “I think you might have left some things in here from your personal collection.” He tried hard to keep the edge from his voice, but the room suddenly felt threatening, and Will had to hold himself from running. Intrigue, and maybe desperation he had not yet acknowledged, gave him roots to hold. The desperation for distraction from the constant overwhelming of his own mind.

Hannibal moved, quiet enough go unnoticed by someone who perhaps was not as in tune with their own senses as Will. The too slight shuffle was enough to allow him warning to Hannibal's approach. “The tools inside came as a collection. Not all of them would be used.” Hannibal stood in line with Will now, smiling down. Will felt more than he saw that Hannibal carried victory in that polite smirk, like he had already won the game.

“You're honestly offering up bondage to help me.”

“I am offering an alternative to conventional therapies of which you seem so distrusting. Therapy, in your own words, does not work on you. In my efforts to help you, I will employ as many alterations to normalcy as able.” Will felt the desire to touch his shoulder, but Hannibal refrained, seeing the moment as already strenuous enough. Will may very well end up running from the room at the next proposition, Hannibal though quietly. It was a brief internal struggle to refrain from enjoying the sudden vision of Will's flight, followed by his own chase; how he might devour him if their relationship didn't require such careful, intricate steps – a web that needed to be weaved between them both. A breath from Hannibal came and went, and the thought was carefully stored in his mental palace. “Bindings force us to confront our need for escape. Escape is another facet of control, is it not? The need for control of our fate, a desire to flee from a perceived threat. To be bound is to be forced to confront our perceptions, though we may not always be aware.” Will watched him as he spoke, and Hannibal's smile returned, comforting and inviting. “The release of our own free will, the confrontation of our perceptions, and the submission of our desires, is the appeal to binding. For our purposes tonight, Will, I would like to employ these concepts to address your own troubled mind, your grasping need for a foothold. If anything, you may find temporary alleviation of your own mental constructs enough to find a root cause for the very recent upset.”

The look that Will wore was one of thinly veiled disbelief. And Hannibal, who he trusted enough to come to the man with his own dark secrets, would surely treat his body with as much care as he would his mind. Hannibal was peeking into the box beside him, before a rueful grin was directed at Will. “I did say that not all of these are for you, dear Will. And also, the venture into binding therapy will be beneficial to us both. As a means to learn, of course.”

Will gave him a toothy grin finally, shaking his head as he felt his own surrender come. “You presented that very well. If I agreed, what would we do? The, uh-- ball gag in there. Is that on the menu today?”

The glee that Hannibal exuded was only visible for a split second before he reached, touch delicate as he lifted the dressage from the box. “Oh no. The menu today will involve minimal restraint. I'm afraid that particular tool was not meant to be at the office. You were correct when you pointed out my own carelessness.” Hannibal was never careless, Will thought, but he let him continue. “Today would only serve as an introduction, and to see if this alternative therapy would be beneficial for you.”

But the ball-gag, but much like the box, could not be unseen and served to taunt will with what could be if he allowed this to escalate. Will would not know what lead him to look at Hannibal, to meet that maroon gaze and give a stuttered nod of permission and consent.

“Are you comfortable standing? It may lend to a compromise, finding your own feet to hold yourself but constrained to immobility.” Hannibal knelt, lifting black silk cord from the chest. He shut it without a sound and looked to Will. The dressage was still in his loose grip. “This will be an intellectual exercise only, Will. We will only go as far as you wish. The binding along will serve our purpose and we will refrain from the perverse.”

Will eyed him, understanding the direction. His gaze traveled the room before setting on the ladder. Hannibal passed him, already crossing to their destination.

Will shucked the coat from his shoulders, knowing he would need the range of movement to put his arms behind him. He was cautious as he leaned back, and when he felt the rungs press, the sudden recollection of what he was doing hit him. He let out a slow breath, the shudder unintentional as Hannibal passed behind him. “I need something. Don't I? If it's too much.” A window for the burning building which he was too quickly becoming. 

“Are you familiar with Nahmanides?” Will was not, and Hannibal caught the small shake of his head as he pulled his arms behind him, ensuring they were only extended enough to bind. “He was a Jewish scholar.” There was more reasoning, but Hannibal fell silent, taking a moment to appreciate Will's hands, bound with black rope and secured to the fifth rung of the ladder. He dropped the rope and quickly contemplated securing Will's ankles to the posts. He realized his folly, acknowledged his own desire, and passed around the back of the ladder to stand before Will. “As it is outside of your normal vocabulary, and beyond familiarity, I offer up that suggestion. The term is a safe-word, Will. And it is quite important. I applaud you for your insight.”

Will looked on the verge of ragged. Even just from the simple securing of his arms to the ladder, he was building up warmth. The warmth in an already fevered body made him dewy, the sweat looking out of place in the chilled office, in the middle of winter. 

Hannibal stood before Will, soaking in the sight and drinking deep of the vulnerability. And Will, for his part, recognized something new in Hannibal. Will was a fly on a web, he had been seduced by the intoxicating smell of promise and flew too close to get away. And now he was tied to his therapist's ladder and suddenly felt the full weight of his decision.

Hannibal reached for his face, as if to bring him to full awareness of his place, his perceived helplessness. Will twisted his head away, trying to avoid the fingers that ultimately plucked his glasses from his face. Oh, how Hannibal wanted to cherish that moment, the first stripping away of armor between them. Without his glasses, now placed alongside the statue of a proud stag, Will was left to look onward. 

Hannibal came around him again, the dressage sitting as a silent threat on the wooden chair nearby. It was only an introduction, Will thought. Only an intellectual exercise. The long tongue of the dressage whip would not touch him, would not bite his flesh and bring up guilty seeds of pleasure to root deep in his being.

Hannibal reached again and Will flinched this time, avoiding the contact of his hand. Hannibal stopped him, his grip firm on his chin, the feel of his thumb pressing against the edge of his jaw too real. “Feel. Be in this moment, dear Will. Do you know why I suggested this?”

“You were tired of my leg bouncing.” Will said the words too quickly, the snarky comment a poor defense. 

Hannibal did not laugh. He gave no indication of amusement, his gaze too intense in that moment to have heard Will's words for what they were. “Your anxiety comes from concentrating on the moment inside of yourself. It comes from the fear of your own world, your own behavior, and how that may translate to your own personal meaning. The thoughts you see and the interpretations you hold over yourself. How tiresome it must be to hold yourself in a cage.” The last words were spoken with distraction and pity, and Hannibal reached for Will's throat. “This is not to hurt you, Will. You are placed in a state where you are unable to flee. Where you must confront your perception.” 

Will looked up, his short breaths tasting like panic. When the pressure of fingers at the sides of his throat increased, threatening more than cutting his airflow off, and Will strained upward. Hannibal barely squeezed, his fingers dancing over the slick skin of Will's neck. They followed the line of his collar, Hannibal's long fingers sliding around the back of his neck in mock ownership. His thumb brushed against Will's Adam's Apple, feeling the sudden gasp. Will knew by the look, knew to take the breath, because he could see it. Hannibal closed his hand, thumb and fingers pressing into the underside of Will's chin, forcing his head up and causing a constraint in his breathing.

“Your very breath is in my control now, Will. I release you to this moment. Stay in this moment with me.” Hannibal could see the panic building. He lowered his voice, his tone soothing despite where his hand was, cutting the airflow still. “Remain here with me. Relinquish your mind to this moment. Free yourself, Will, of the burden of thought.”

Hannibal would have liked to think he reached his other hand low with more purpose. He wanted to touch him. To rattle him and awaken him. When Hannibal's fingers brushed the exposed flesh of Will's stomach, where his shirt had come untucked and the smooth curve of flesh could be seen, Will's hips jerked. It took him a moment, but Hannibal calmly came to terms with what he was playing at, and what his decision insinuated.

Hannibal was caught as much as Will, trapped and restrained to the moment. Will was here, tied to his ladder and struggling to breathe, because he wanted improvement and release. Hannibal offered it because he wanted to push Will to every edge he could, including a physical one. And it worked. The scent of feverish sweat and fear. He tasted apprehension and trust on Will before, but the heavy musk of a body struggling in an adrenaline rush overpowered the previous tastes to the air. Now, with the simple touch, Hannibal could smell the change of blood flow. Will's mind was yearning for alleviation as much as his body yearned for attention. Will could not see it, as the distraction of asphyxiation ceased his bottomless empathy. Hannibal took it for what it was; the lust was not foreign to him, though it surprised him. He found it quite pleasant, touching Will's belly where he thought he might cut him open later, and holding his neck. Hannibal vaguely thought how he might taste if he bit in where his fingers caught the flutter of the external jugular vein. 

With his other hand, fingertips traveled along the edge of low-priced khaki, the belt at Will's waist feeling rough where it drug against Hannibal's skin. Soon, his fingers were unable to follow the curve without an exaggerated twist of his wrist, and his thumb took it's place to brush, Hannibal settling his hand at the edge of Will's hip. Hannibal watched his hand, particularly enjoying the sight of his own flesh in contrast with Will's.

“I want you to breath, Will. In and out. In counts of three. My hand is not so tight that you cannot, and I will not hurt you. We are limiting you to bring attention to your breath. In and out now.”

Will fought to breathe. His lungs were starting to burn, his mind forcing a physiological response of faster, shallow breaths to compensate. “In and out, Will. Feel your body. Use it as a tether to bind your mind. Concentrate on the moment. Feel your body.”

Hannibal left his hand at Will's waist, and watched as he started to breathe. Will, fighting with hyperventilating, found difficulty with the timing. In with three, out with three. Hannibal mimicked the expectation, giving Will a pattern to follow. He was close enough to see a drip of perspiration run down the length of Will's lovely tanned neck. How he wanted to catch it with his tongue. Will caught the energy, absorbed the fluidity of it like a sponge. He shared Hannibal's breath and his thoughts turned south.

Hannibal made no acknowledgment as he saw Will start to harden, the evidence now causing his pants to tent. His plans had changed, and Hannibal would take time later to evaluate how the evening had gone. For now, he finally released Will's throat.

Will hunched, his body pulling in air as if the deprivation had been extreme. It was only the panic, Will tried to think, only the adrenaline. The thoughts rushed back in. Hannibal's hand at his throat had felt like a true threat. Like the man could cause him harm easily. It was unnerving. More unnerving than partaking of binding therapy. He liked it. He liked relinquishing control. Even the fear of Hannibal's hand at his throat could not overpower the brief liberation of his decisions being taken over, when even breath was not his responsibility but a decision someone else was allowing him. The appeal of sadomasochism and bondage was suddenly very poignant in the moment that Will struggled to gather his thoughts.

Once his arms were free, Will took two steps forward, reaching to rub his arms. He found it hard to reorient himself.

Hannibal, ever polite, placed a firm grip on Will's shoulders and directed him to the seat. “That was very good, Will. For ten minutes, you were focused on your breathing. Did you fear your world? Did your perception include your student veterinarian's hurt pride? Or was it only your breathing, leaving your broken zoo keeper's bodies behind.”

Will shook his head, his hand at his throat despite the lack of injury. He was still breathing hard when he looked up, his eyes watery. He looked disheveled. And Hannibal was suddenly still, the pretty words failing themselves at the sight before him. Will simultaneously existed on Hannibal's dinner table as well as his bed in his mind. The desire to consume and devour him as completely as he could, in every sense possible. Hannibal lowered his eyes, registering the stir inside himself before he was stepping away. “You should have some water.” The words were murmured as Hannibal fixed Will a glass and returned to him. He sat across from him, allowing Will the space and time he needed to sort himself out.

“It was--” Will tried desperately to ignore the throb below. He was half-hard and knew it was hard to miss. “Enlightening.”

Hannibal nodded, taking his seat carefully. He crossed his legs, arms hooking around his knee. “You did quite well, Will. For your first time.” A promise as much as it was anything else. Hannibal looked distracted as he memorized the sights from before with Will, defenseless in front of him, and stored them for himself. 

They finished up the session with a glass of wine. Neither of them were fully involved for the remainder of the time. The purple elephant sat in the room and neither man commented on it. When Will finally made his way to his car, he was on edge. 

When the quiet finally hit him on the way home, it caused a deep unease as he thought about the freedom he found from himself. It made him irritable. He drank three fingers of whiskey in his own tumbler and sat outside until the cold took the feeling in his face away. It did little to soothe him, and his mood worsened as he walked through his tiny house. 

By the time he laid down, something happened that was a rarity—a blue moon on an odd numbered month. Will found himself impossibly hard. His mind went back to the ladder digging into his back and his body yearned for the feeling of fingertips against his waistband. He drug his own, his head tilted back. The sensation made his lips twitch, his breath quicken, but it wasn't the same. Even the hand that was dipping into his cotton boxers was unfulfilling. 

He was dragging his hand up and down on three counts, his form sprawled and taking up as much space as he could. Hannibal should not be here in his mind, with his maroon gaze and slender hands. He belonged in better places. Better places than the sweat stained bed that Will had currently thought him into. Better than the ram-shack bedroom in the tiny house in the fog. And yet there he was. Will could see him, could see the wickedness disguised as concern. He could smell the danger and threat of his hands when they traveled up his legs. His tie would drag, and his fancy suits would end up soiled with dry cleaning bills big enough to feed a family of four. Will wished to cease the duality of his thoughts and sped up his hand. Hannibal was settling his hands on his hips, holding him as firm as he held his throat. Not tight enough to stop his breath. His hand traveled in counts of three. Fast counts, but still up and down in counts of three. 

Hannibal's threatening hand was down between his legs, joining Will's own. The sullied image of his therapist over him, touching him, sent him over. And Will's mouth gaped for air, the oncoming orgasm stealing it away. Muscles constricting in his thighs, he twitched upward into his own grip. He still fought to keep his breath in counts of three. He could see Hannibal in his own bed, a frustrated masturbation interrupting his normally desperate tries for undisturbed sleep. He could imagine him laying in the refractory period, struggling with the same uncomfortable realizations that Will had. 

He would ask about another session, Will decided as he laid there, feeling sleep settle into his bones. That binding therapy was bullshit, but if it helped him sleep, he would put up with Hannibal's eccentric experiments. And he may one day confront him about the subtle direction towards an affair and the blatant sexual harassment he seemed so fond of pushing on Will's already tormented mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Binding therapy is not real. If it is, Hannibal probably founded it because it is the biggest load of bull ever.  
> Thank you for reading and Happy Holidays!


End file.
